


Hanebori

by sciencefictioness



Series: Repeat [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, M/M, Sibling Incest, Tattoos, mild exhibitionism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 05:51:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20077210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencefictioness/pseuds/sciencefictioness
Summary: It’s taken more time than Hanzo would like, but he has to wait for the piece to heal between sessions.  Even biotics only do so much; overuse them and the ink won’t set, or so the stories say.Hanzo’s impatience isn’t powerful enough that he’s willing to risk it.  This one needs to be perfect.The sleeve stretches from Hanzo’s right wrist all the way past his bicep now, ink curling up over his collar bone, swooping behind him across his shoulder blade.  The design is a tangle of tree branches full of sparrows and lotus flowers in shades of green— all of it outlined, and most of it in color, now.  It’s taken almost a dozen visits from the artist, but they’re almost done.  It would have been easier, would have been faster, to go to a modern artist for the work.  Hanzo rankles at the idea.Some of the things that have been instilled in Hanzo are hard to unlearn, but the clan traditions are mostly harmless.Hanzo clings to them, even as he clings to Genji.  He wears his gis, and carries his katana.He lays on the floor and lets the horishi do his work.  It feels more real this way, the slow spread of the ink over his skin, each individual press of needles carving feathers into him.





	Hanebori

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lingering_nomad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lingering_nomad/gifts).

> Commission for lingering nomad, I appreciate you more than you know!
> 
> Hanebori, or 'feathering', is 'a feathery push and pull motion' used by traditional irezumi artists.

The pain is a distant thing, something he has to focus on to really feel. 

Not just in the moment. Hanzo was taught early to push down anything that hurt and leave it there, bury it until it was too far away to matter. To keep him safe, Sojiro said, and then showed Hanzo what pain could be; how it truly felt when it got its teeth in him. 

When  _ he  _ got  _ his  _ teeth in him.

Hanzo isn’t grateful, but he understands.

They’re in the banquet hall, the table and chairs cleared away, Hanzo laid out on a brand new tatami mat covered in silk. The horishi sits cross legged on the floor to his right, gloved palm splayed out on Hanzo’s bicep where it’s thrown over his chest to keep it stable, stabbing into his skin in an endless rhythm. He digs the cluster of needles in again and again, then pauses to wipe away the excess ink mixed with Hanzo’s blood. The steel points are tied with silk thread to the end of a wooden nomi, and the horishi slowly, painstakingly works vivid color into the feathers of sparrows he’d outlined weeks ago. 

It’s taken more time than Hanzo would like, but he has to wait for the piece to heal between sessions. Even biotics only do so much; overuse them and the ink won’t set, or so the stories say. Whether it’s a superstition, or there’s truth to the adage, Hanzo isn’t sure. 

Hanzo’s impatience isn’t powerful enough that he’s willing to risk it. This one needs to be perfect.

Needs to be flawless. 

The sleeve stretches from Hanzo’s right wrist all the way past his bicep now, ink curling up over his collar bone, swooping behind him across his shoulder blade. The design is a tangle of tree branches full of sparrows and lotus flowers in shades of green— all of it outlined, and most of it in color, now. It’s taken almost a dozen visits from the artist, but they’re almost done. It would have been easier, would have been faster, to go to a modern artist for the work. It’s what Genji and many of their kobun do, but Hanzo rankles at the idea.

Some of the things that have been instilled in Hanzo are hard to unlearn, but the clan traditions are mostly harmless.

Hanzo clings to them, even as he clings to Genji. He wears his gis, and carries his katana.

He lays on the floor and lets the horishi do his work. It feels more real this way, the slow spread of the ink over his skin, each individual press of needles carving feathers into him. 

Irezumi hurts, but it’s nothing compared to the agony of being bound to his dragons. Hanzo remembers being fourteen. Remembers being tied down to help keep him still, his chest heaving, covered in sweat from head to toe as he shook through the agony. Remembers a spirit settling into him, then  _ another,  _ too big and too ancient and too otherworldly to be anchored to someone like Hanzo. Cracking at the seams of him, bones grinding and lighting flashing through his veins.

Irezumi hurts, but Hanzo has had worse.

The artist has done a spectacular job of working Hanzo’s original tattoo into the design. He also didn’t hesitate to ink Genji’s name there, as though carved into one of the branches, kanji small but deliberate. It didn’t matter if no one but Hanzo could pick it out, Genji tucked away in the lines and color.

The kanji on the left side Hanzo’s throat is larger, made up of thick black strokes that can’t be concealed, or mistaken. It isn’t covered by the collars of Hanzo’s shirts, isn’t hidden by his jackets. The elders didn’t say a word, but they went wide-eyed when they noticed. Hanzo doesn’t care.

Genji kisses him there every morning, and every night. Stands next to Hanzo’s chair at meetings sometimes, and curls a hand around his neck, fingertips settling over the tattoo like he’s seeking comfort. The first time he saw it, Genji’s eyes lit up bright enough that they hurt to look at.

Then he snarled, and took Hanzo to bed, and kept him there a long, long time.

Hanzo didn’t expect Genji to stay with him while the artist worked on the sleeve. It’s a large design, a time consuming process, and Genji only has patience for things he enjoys. Slinking through the dark after someone, or taking them apart.

An enemy, or Hanzo, or both.

Genji is there for the first session, though, and the second, and every one after. Hanzo lays on the floor with head head on a pillow, hair pulled up into a bun to keep it out of the way, loose strands spilling out around his face. They set up close to the wall so that Genji can lean on it. 

Close so that Genji can reach out and touch. Right now he is barefoot and dressed in a gi, one leg thrown over Hanzo’s hips, the other folded into himself. Hanzo’s own gi is pulled down to his waist, and Genji trails his fingers over the lines of Hanzo’s dragons, eyes a steady, eerie green. He watches as the ink is filled in, his stare something Hanzo can feel just as surely as he feels Genji’s hands, or the horishi’s needles. 

Hanzo’s dragons thrum under his fingertips, iridescent blue light humming faintly everywhere Genji touches. Sometimes he palms Hanzo’s bicep and slides it up and down, massaging at the muscle and watching it light up brighter. It’s warm. More than just the warmth of Hanzo’s skin, or Genji’s hand. Fever hot, and electric, and Hanzo’s eyes flash in turn as he shoots Genji a half-hearted glare.

“Stop it, Genji,” he says, but it’s drowsy. Soft, without any of the heat that’s twisting in him. Whether it’s the endorphins that have him docile, or Genji, Hanzo isn’t sure. Genji smiles, teeth sharp, and keeps moving his fingers over the scales of Hanzo’s dragons.

He doesn’t want to Genji to stop, but it’s difficult to keep himself still with Genji looking at him that way— openly hungry.

_ Shamelessly  _ hungry.

“Stop fidgeting, anija.”

Genji says it with a grin, tilting his head to the side and holding Hanzo’s gaze. The horishi is used to this, by now— Genji teasing. Genji touching. Genji kissing Hanzo, sometimes, when he refills his ink and changes out needles. He’s unfazed by them, or he’s hiding it well enough that Hanzo doesn’t notice. Any surprise or distaste on his part is outweighed by the prestige of working on the oyabun of the Shimada clan. 

For someone whose clientele consists almost entirely of high ranking yakuza, there’s no greater status symbol than Hanzo wearing his work. So he’s quiet, and he keeps his eyes down, and does his job.

Genji sinks his fingers into Hanzo’s hair, pulling it loose from the ribbon so he can sift through the strands. 

“You have gray hairs,” Genji says, smirking wider, meeting Hanzo’s eyes and waiting for him to take the bait. Hanzo huffs, reaching with his free hand to tug Genji down.

“Whose fault is  _ that,”  _ Hanzo replies, slotting their mouths together to placate him. Genji is always restless watching Hanzo get tattooed. Hanzo can’t pretend he didn’t know what it would do to Genji, seeing sparrows inked into his arm. 

_ You’re putting me in your  _ skin,  _ anija. Makes me want you so fucking bad. _

The needles in his bicep still as they kiss— it’s not chaste, but they don’t sink into it like they usually do, don’t let themselves get lost. It will only take longer if he indulges Genji now. 

He can indulge them both later; Hanzo pulls away, and glares. 

“Be  _ patient.  _ He’s almost done.”

It will be a while yet, but when the session is over, the sleeve will be complete. Hanzo has a lot more ink to get— Sojiro had nearly every inch of himself covered, as did his father, and his grandfather. He’ll give it some time before he settles on any designs. Genji is the one who will spend the most time looking at them.

Hanzo wants to let him choose.

The needles start moving again, the sting fresh after even just a few moments of rest.

Genji keeps petting through his hair.

Hanzo almost falls asleep.

-

The artist is barely packed up before Genji is on Hanzo, both wrists pinned to the floor above his head. Hanzo goes easy, lets Genji put him where he likes; Genji is careful not to touch the fresh ink. 

Genji is careful with Hanzo, and his weapons, and nothing else. 

He kisses Hanzo like it's been weeks instead of hours. Genji laces their fingers together, coaxing Hanzo's mouth further open and groaning into him. His thighs fall wide, and Genji surges into the space, grinding down against him. Their dragon tattoos are flush against one another like this, glowing blue-green everywhere they touch. There’s warm contentment pooling in Hanzo; the part of him that’s ancient, and animal.

The spirits decide where their marks go, when the binding ritual takes place. They twist through their chosen vessel before settling, an afterimage pulsing on their skin for the horishi to follow with their needles. Hanzo and Genji’s are placed perfectly for this— for Genji to hold him down, dragon pressed against dragon. He used to wonder if it was coincidence, how their spirits were positioned.

Used to wonder if it was some kind of punishment, Genji’s tattoo warm and alive and eager against his own, something he has always been too weak to resist. Hanzo knows better now.

Their dragons belonged to one another long before the two of them were born.

Hanzo has been Genji’s, always.

Genji fucks him right there on the floor, footsteps echoing faintly up and down the hall. The silk covering the tatami wrinkles underneath them, ink-stained and bloody, as Genji mouths a bruise into his throat. Kisses the tattoo of his name. Nuzzles into Hanzo’s hair.

They hear Kou, once, voice soft as he turns someone away,  _ Kumichō is busy. He’ll send for you later.  _

Hanzo doesn’t.

He and Genji stumble to their room— it would be faster if Genji wasn’t pressing him into walls, and licking into his mouth. They get there eventually, tangled in the fresh silk sheets on their bed. Hanzo always blocks the whole day off when he’s tattooed. After so many sessions, he knows how Genji gets.

Whatever business his lieutenant has with him, it can wait.

-

Hanzo hasn’t spent as much time in the baths, not with his sleeve in a constant state of healing for the past few months. Soaking is bad for the ink. Now the piece is finished— the ink set, the skin smooth. Showers are fine, but it’s not the same as easing into the bath and letting the heat wash away his stress.

The baths in Shimada castle are large, and lavish, the water trickling in from a nearby volcanic hot spring. They’re outdoors, rockwork surrounding the pools to keep out any prying eyes, more an onsen than anything else. Steam rises in the air, and Hanzo sighs and sinks deeper into the water, tension easing from his muscles. It’s been far too long; Hanzo will have to schedule a few extra days between appointments when he gets started on his back piece, make sure he has time for this before he begins the healing process all over again. 

He lets his head fall back on the stone rim of the bath, running his fingers over the ledge underneath him. The water laps at his throat, loose strands of hair falling down into it, billowing around him. Hanzo hadn’t felt tired when he got in, but now his eyes drift closed, drowsiness hitting him hard. It would be easy to fall asleep there.

Genji’s voice comes from his right, sulking and petulant.

“You started without me.”

Hanzo blinks slowly, glancing over to find Genji mostly undressed, already wet from the shower. He’s wearing a robe, but it’s open, dropping off one shoulder to catch at the elbow; Hanzo is surprised he bothered with it at all. 

He lets it fall to the floor, naked but for the tattoos on his skin. Hanzo’s stare lingers on him— the sprawl of his dragons, and the flex of his calves as he descends the steps into the water. Genji is all lean muscle and old scars. 

Hanzo knows every inch of him; he sits up, watching as Genji prowls closer.

“You took too long,” Hanzo says.

Genji scoffs and straddles Hanzo’s lap, fingers tangling in his hair. Hanzo wraps his arms around Genji’s waist, palm wet as it slips up his spine, the other sliding down to take a handful of his ass. Hanzo urges him closer, digs his fingers in.

“It’s been months since you bathed like this, you couldn’t wait another half hour?”

Hanzo shrugs, rocking his hips; Genji feels so good like this, pressed against him in the heat of the baths. They’ve been busy with different things the past week, Genji chasing down rival clan lieutenants on the south end of their territory, Hanzo attending board meetings for companies in which the clan has a vested interest. He doesn’t always go himself, but it’s good to keep them on their toes.

A few nights spent apart is nothing new. Genji had crawled into bed with Hanzo in the early hours of the morning, flushed with the rush of setting his dragons loose and ready to eat Hanzo alive.

Genji is still hungry, it seems. Hanzo would be disappointed with anything less.

“I didn’t know how long you intended to spend in the dojo letting Hideyuki throw matches so you would pin him.”

The smirk is evident in Hanzo’s voice, and Genji laughs, bright and loud.

“Long enough that Kou stepped in to do it himself, and not a moment longer.” 

Genji rolls his hips again, hard already, grinding down into Hanzo. Both his arms go snug around Genji’s waist, pulling him tighter against his lap. It’s got Hanzo’s eyes fluttering shut, face tucked into Genji’s chest as they move together. Genji’s arms are looped around his throat, head thrown back and spine arched.

He’s always beautiful, but especially here, in Hanzo’s arms.

The sky is cloudless overhead, stars vivid, moon nothing but a sliver on the horizon. The sounds of the city are close, but quiet. Water splashes as Genji rocks faster, breathing heavy, making whining sounds. It’s not going to take long— a few nights apart is nothing new, but they don’t have to like it. Genji wants him brazenly. 

Doesn’t like being away. Isn’t afraid to show it.

Hanzo is suddenly assailed by the sheer euphoria of being with Genji like this— Genji’s hands on his throat in meetings, easing down into his clothes. His fingers brush over sparrows and lotus blossoms before easing away as he takes his place at Hanzo’s side again. 

Everything he needs is at his fingertips. 

His weapons, and Hanzo.

Genji gets his hand around them now, stroking fast, both of them shaking at the contact. Hanzo bucks up into Genji’s fist, breath hot against Genji’s collar bones, lips trembling.

He finishes first, twitching his orgasm out as Genji strokes him through it. He’s missed this— Genji in the warmth of the baths, together in the open. Hanzo leans hard into Genji for a few moments, waiting for the dizziness to pass before batting Genji’s hand away from himself. He closes his palm over Genji’s cock, works him fast and rough. Circles his thumb over the head, and palms his sac. Genji shoves his face into Hanzo’s throat.

Bites down, and comes, clinging to Hanzo’s biceps as he shudders out his orgasm. 

Genji makes no move to climb off Hanzo afterwards. Just curls up there, pressed close and half-asleep, absently tracing his tattoos. Flowers, sparrows, dragons.

Genji.

“Have you decided what you want on your back?” Genji asks, words slurred with exhaustion. He’s been working hard, fighting hard. Keeping Hanzo safe.

It’s no wonder he’s barely there.

“Thought I’d let you choose,” Hanzo says, and Genji smiles into his jaw. Squeezes Hanzo’s shoulders.

“Of  _ course  _ you would,” he replies. It’s meant to come off sarcastically, but Genji just sounds fond.

“You don’t want to?” Hanzo doesn’t really need to ask; he knows better.

_ “Of course  _ I do,” Genji replies, slapping at his arm. “You have bad taste, anyway.”

Hanzo huffs a laugh, reaching up to untangle Genji’s hair.

“What does that say about you?”

“A notable exception.”

They spend a long time in the water, Genji eventually settling into place at Hanzo’s side. He throws an arm around him, and Hanzo eases underneath it.

Between the hot springs, and Genji, Hanzo is all but liquid. Genji lifts Hanzo’s arm and presses his lips to a sparrow.

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me nice things or come yell at me on [twitter.](https://twitter.com/scifictioness?lang=en)


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